


Overture

by dairyme



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Injury, Origin Story, Prompt Fic, totally inaccurate portrayal of 17th century army life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/pseuds/dairyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Treville recruits a young soldier to the King's guard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mackem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/gifts).



> Flimsy, hastily-written little fic for the prompt "Aramis and Treville: breaking the rules". 
> 
> Honestly if you have any knowledge at all of how any army of any country in any time period worked, you probably won't enjoy this unless you're really good at suspending disbelief. You could probably kick holes in the plot, such as it is, with fifteen minutes of research on wikipedia. 
> 
> That said, I feel any inaccuracies are very much in the spirit of the show itself (ha), and indeed the mentioned injury and the implied location are consistent with that canon.

The soldier ducked into the tent without ceremony, though he did attempt a courteous nod when Treville looked up.

“I was told you wanted to see me.” His posture was slightly crooked, and he held his right arm awkwardly against his body. 

Treville noted this immediately. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes sir.” He shifted his weight. He was obviously in some discomfort, but it didn’t show in his face.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

He paused, as if taking time to choose the right words. “To fight,” he said eventually.

“For our King,” Treville prompted.

“Yes sir.” He swiped the back of his left hand across his cheek in a barely successful attempt to clear it of some of the blood and dirt smeared there.

“And do you know why I’ve asked to speak with you?”

The man paused again, gaze lowered. “A disciplinary matter?” he said uncertainly.

Treville cracked a smile despite himself. “Have you done something that would require a disciplinary?”

The man smiled back, and it lit up his face beneath the battlefield grime. He shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

Treville leaned forward to rest his arms on the rickety makeshift table he sat behind. “How long have you been a soldier?”

“About three years.”

“In those three years,” he said, looking down at the papers in front of him, “you have been officially commended on six occasions for showing outstanding bravery and skill in battle, three of which involved directly saving the life of a superior officer.”

He seemed uncertain how to respond to that, but Treville waited until he did, finally, with another neutral “Yes sir.”

Treville watched him carefully as he continued. “Monsieur d’Herblay, I asked to see you because I am recruiting, and you were recommended to me.”

The soldier frowned curiously, but didn’t interrupt.

“Have you heard of the Musketeers?”

He nodded, and now he was watching as intently as he was being watched, a shrewd intelligence in his eyes. “The King’s personal guard.”

“The regiment is only small, as it stands, but when this war is over the King’s priorities will shift closer to home. I have started training exceptional soldiers for his guard when that happens.” He laced his fingers together. ”I think you could be one of them.”

The soldier blinked, shifted his weight again, and opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before actually speaking. “Yes.”

Treville raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Yes, sir.” He smiled again. “I would be honoured.”

The smile was infectious, and Treville fought to keep his expression serious. “How long do you have left in this campaign?”

“Five weeks.”

It was longer than Treville had hoped, but it was workable. There was also obviously the risk that the man would be killed in those five weeks, but he had survived this long, so his chances were good. “When you leave here, come to Paris. You can live in the garrison, but will not be paid until you earn your commission. Do you have means?”

“A little.” He had taken hold of his right wrist in an attempt to support the injured arm, but he did so subtly, as if hoping he could disguise it. Treville did not miss it. “Enough.”

“I will write you a note,” Treville said, standing and offering his hand, “which you can collect from Captain Trouvé when you finish here.”

He approached automatically to take Treville's hand, but realised too late that he would be unable to raise his own to do so. “Ah…”

He had looked away, slightly embarrassed, which bothered Treville more than he might have expected. It had been a ploy, of course, to confirm the severity of the injury, but he had not intended to cause discomfort. “Let me see,” he said.

The man was reluctant, but Treville had made it enough of an order that he couldn’t very well refuse. He attempted to push the coat from his shoulder with his left hand, movements stiff and awkward, before Treville leaned over to help him.

Beneath the coat he wore only a loose shirt, and blood had soaked through at the shoulder despite the bandage beneath. Treville gingerly lifted the neck of the shirt to get a look at the dressing. It was new, bound tightly but inexpertly. The skin visible at the edge of the area was reddened.

“Gunshot.”

Treville let go of the shirt and looked at him. “You haven’t been invalided for this?”

He drew himself up, as well as he could, that slightly haughty pride particular to youth. “The wound will have closed by tomorrow.”

Treville gave him an incredulous look. “Your right arm is unusable.”

“I can fight with my left.”

“Does Captain Trouvé know about this?”

He had started tugging his coat back on, taking a small step back out of Treville’s reach. “Yes.”

“And he is ready to let you fight?”

“He insisted.” He sighed, keeping his gaze on a point beyond Treville’s shoulder. “We’re short of soldiers. And I am still capable.”

Treville stared at him, this – nothing more than a boy, really, twenty-three years at most – skilled enough to achieve so much in such a short career, but brave and reckless enough to follow an order that would undoubtedly end his life, without so much as a hint of resentment or fear.

He took up a blank piece of parchment and his pen. “You’ll be dead within the day,” he said, already writing. “I’m making arrangements for you to travel to La Rochelle. After that you will be on leave until you can use that arm again.”

“Sir…”

Treville gave him a look severe enough to immediately halt any discussion. “Then you will come to Paris. Do you understand?”

He clenched his jaw. “Yes sir.”

“That is an order. You can take it as one from the King.” He paused to finish the letter, not looking up again until it was signed. “Now go and pack your belongings. And not a word to anyone.”

“Yes sir.” He began to leave, but stopped after a few steps and half-turned back. “Sir?”

“What is it?”

“This isn’t, strictly speaking, allowed.” He caught Treville’s eye. “Is it?”

Treville held his gaze. He was sure he saw a smile threatening the man’s features. “Go,” he said firmly.

At that there was no mistaking the grin, visible for just a second, before he turned his back to Treville and headed out into the camp.


End file.
